


ships in the night

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drabbles, Multi, incomplete fics, sorry for spamming tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:08:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1304347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabble and/or uncompleted work collection of mine for the Hetalia fandom. Sort of a dump, a place to put things. There will be pairings and characters of all varieties and sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ships in the night

The Earth is shaking.  
  
Lovino is dizzy. He's hungry – so  hungry . His stomach incessantly growls and starves and tells him he's fucking  _ hungry _ , but he can't do anything to satiate it. He has no supplies. There's nothing fresh in the area to possibly eat, and Lovino curses himself for the millionth time for being so stupid as getting separated from his regiment. He misses pasta with his brother, his misses tomatoes and the pure red they were, he misses the smallest crumb of bread that would remain on a beautiful white china plate after a satisfying meal.  
  
His throat is parched too, drier than the well he and Feliciano left back at their grandfather Romulus's home, and he knows he needs the necessity of water or he'll die. He knows all too well. It's coming soon, but not fast enough. He used to be afraid of death when he was first enlisted; now, he would welcome it when it finally came.    
  
Something horrible pricks him in the side, continuing relentlessly on to stab and stab and _ stab _ . Everything spins and spins and spins and it's tiring to watch, so he closes his eyes and submits to the darkness. He lets his body tumble to the ground, and welcomes the eternal night.

* * *

 

_ Steady steps, now. _   
  
Matthew nearly trips over his own two feet as he continues on, watching carefully for the sign of anything or anyone suspicious. He can hear Arthur's scathing voice echoing through his head now, “ _ keep calm and carry on _ ”. The saying is a popular one in England now, and Matthew has taken quite a liking to it. When everything else seems to fall to chaos and anarchy, the British will be able to maintain their strong, unmoving demeanor. It's admirable, and he respects them for it.  
  
He and Alfred are scouting the area today; most of them take turns and it changes frequently. They're in the bays of Sicily now – the Second Great War rages on with its terror, inhumanity, and never ending bloodshed. Matthew used to be find it disgusting and so horrible for all its perpetual destruction and death – having always been a pacifist who values peace and prosperity – but now he can't even muster a sigh of sad disappointment for the decadence that reigned the Earth. He's just so tired. Home is a long way away across the wide Atlantic Ocean, and every day Matthew reminds himself: _ I'm fighting for my country. For the world. For peace to reign once more. _

He tenses when he suddenly hears a sound of movement. Bushes rustle indignantly in pain, indicating someone is trying to move through them. It's not Alfred – even he knows better than not to make so much noise when so close to enemy territory. Meaning it was most likely an enemy solider approaching. All the animals would have been frightened away to what he prays is safety by the endless gunshots by now.  
  
Matthew raises his weapon, prepared to fire if need be. He doesn't want to if he doesn't have to, but remains cautious. All his senses seemed heightened now; eyes sharp, ears listening for the slightest movement, his heart pounding terribly hard in his chest.

A man collapses through the bush, landing painfully on the dirt with a thud. It's a sudden sound. Matthew flinches, and he almost pulls the trigger to protect himself on instinct.  
  
But he doesn't, and the Earth remains silent save for Matthew's quiet breathing, and his heartbeat attempting to calm itself lest it tires itself out.  
  
Matthew lowers his gun, glancing around for signs of anybody else approaching. It's highly unlikely that there would be, especially since the man has obviously passed out; there's nobody. But one couldn't be too paranoid – if there is anything Matthew has learned while serving in the military, it's that.  
  
He immediately kneels, setting his weapon down without another thought, and turns over the man. He has dark amber hair encompassed by a gray helmet. His face is marred; there is grime etched on his cheeks and forehead, and he looks strangely peaceful. But his lips are open, cracked, and dry. It's clear he is dehydrated and is in dire need of thirst.  
  
It doesn't matter to Matthew that this man is an enemy soldier. He will not watch anymore people die if he can help it; he has promised himself that a long time ago.  
  


* * *

Lovino cannot recall where he is when he first wakes.  
  
His surroundings are unfamiliar, and he groans. A bed hosts him kindly, and he is disorientated. He faintly remembers shifting in and out of consciousness, and violet, concerned eyes watching over him.  
  
The light is dim, thankfully, and Lovino blinks tiredly up at it. He stares until his vision becomes darkened with black spots, and he is forced to squeeze them shut tightly after a few moments. Everything hurts. It hurts just to force his own chest to rise and fall. The pain radiates throughout his body like waves from the water, back home in Rome.

_ I just want to go home _ , Lovino screams silently in agony. 

But he can't. He is here now. And here is very vague – his memory is blurred, fuzzy beyond recognition, and soon Lovino feels an oncoming headache with his futile attempts to remember. Yet, he knows it's not familiar. That was the first step, then, to figure out just exactly where he was.  
  
The door swings open, loudly groaning its protest. It could use a good oiling. Lovino cringes at the unpleasant noise, as footsteps draw closer. “Cazzo.”

The approaching sound of boots suddenly stop audibly, and Lovino squints towards the previous source of the noise. Maybe he would be able to finally have a clue as to where he was if he could see who's care he was in – he involuntarily shuddered at the thought. He did not enjoy being in anybody's care, mostly because that meant he would be indebted to them. Past experiences had certainly proven that much to him.  
  
“You're awake.” English. Lovino narrows his amber eyes in fear. _Fucking hell._ English was never good – he was accustomed to Italian. All the conversations held in the army were Italian. The fact that he was hearing English instead meant...

No. _No._ He couldn't have been captured.

Lovino wracks his brain for memories rapidly, desperately straining for some sort of contradiction to this all that would put his mind to peace. There has to be something there, something to prove this isn't happening, something to prove he isn't fucking _captured –_

“How are you feeling?” The soft voice continues with enthusiasm, and Lovino is reminded of the finest satin pillows from Romulus's house, although he cannot comprehend what's actually being spoken to him. It's gentle, too compassionate, too nurturing. He wants to let the warm, concerned tone to encompass him, to fall into it, and never leave its tender embrace. No more fighting, no more war.  
  
“No,” is all he can say, because he knows it's one thing Italian and English share in common. He shakes his head for a moment before realizing that hurt too much to continue. He still feels dizzy – wait. _Still_?  
  
He takes a long look at the man standing above him. He possesses honey-blonde hair that falls around his face in lovely waves, reaching to his broad, dignified shoulders. Glasses embellish blue eyes – no, under further scrutiny, Lovino sees now they're some sort of strange violet color. Unusually captivating, he quickly forces himself to tear his own eyes away and instead observe his uniform.  
  
It was brown, not unlike the ones Lovino was familiar with; but they had a different style to him. It was clear enough that it was from the Americas – he didn't recognize it, and it wasn't England's. Lovino grimaces.  
  
He's certain he's captured now. There's no other possible explanation.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This particular Romano/Canada fic was for silverquil on tumblr for the Romanada Exchange. It'll remained unfinished, but it was asked to be posted. As a result for it forever being incomplete, I am writing a new Romanada prompt, which will be posted as a separate fic when it's finished.
> 
> Frankly, I am not comfortable with writing historical fics, and I asked to possibly switch the prompt. I'm very appreciative I was given the chance to. It was also making no sense to me and I couldn't figure out how to make Matthew and Lovino's meeting/interaction completely plausible, so I gave up. Once more, apologies!
> 
> The original prompt was, "Fic Request: A dark AU that takes place in WWII with a bittersweet ending, feel free to add in unrequited love from third parties."


End file.
